


The Violet Light

by ultharkitty



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Dreams in the Witch House - H. P. Lovecraft, Dreams in the Witch House: A Lovecraftian Rock Opera
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2887781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keziah Mason knows they're coming for her. She doesn't run, there's no point. Instead she goes peacefully, reciting the chant under her breath until her mind is free of everything but the numbers.</p><p>---</p><p>A flashfic about Keziah, because the Dreams in the Witch House rock opera is amazing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Violet Light

Keziah Mason knows they're coming for her. She doesn't run, there's no point. Instead she goes peacefully, reciting the chant under her breath until her mind is free of everything but the numbers.

*

Keziah Mason is on trial, still chanting the arithmetic, scoring the patterns into her mind. She has worked it out, she has seen the violet light, has seen Brown Jenkin and slept with his tiny body wound warm and laughing in her hair. She takes stock of each face, knows they will die and she will transcend. At least she hopes she will transcend. Sweat dampens her coif, a shiver drains her heat. She steels herself; she _will_ transcend, and they will burn in Hell.

* 

It is sunset the day before her execution. Keziah sits calm on the edge of her bed, foul prison straw crawling with bugs, and waits for the turnkey to leave. She hasn't eaten in two days, has left the stale water they bring for her, but she isn't hungry, she isn't thirsty. She'll never be hungry or thirsty again. 

*

Keziah Mason scrawls as fast as she can on the wall of her cell with a scrap of charcoal she'd sewn into the hem of her skirt. Her own body is her ruler, her compasses, the basis and measure of her geometry. She jumps to reach the top of the wall, to complete the final curve. She isn't tall and her reach isn't far, but the wooden bed is too heavy for her to move and there's no other way for her to finish the final arc. Brown Jenkin sits on the narrow high windowsill, his tail flicking back and forth, watching, waiting.

*

The final step is binding, a sacrifice and a vow. She has no knife, so she holds her wrist for Brown Jenkin to bite, and adds her blood to the sooty tracings. 

*

They come for her at dawn, the hangman ready in the square. They find a stub of charcoal, a rat-nibbled hunk of bread. A scrap of cloth hangs from a crack in the wall, a smoke like fairy dust crawling from a network of complex lines and curves as unholy a thing as any of them have ever seen. The cell is locked, the wall is warm. They call for the minister.

*

Keziah Mason is free, her mark a ragged squiggle in the Book of Azathoth, approximation of the sigil she has claimed for her own. The city stretches beneath her, the air shimmers with eternal promise. She steps up onto the balustrade, all angles and lines in a form that is essentially formless, an energy that preserves not even the vestige of her human frame, and takes flight.


End file.
